


Act IV: Andante Grazioso

by lemmonysnippets (hum_hum_humbug)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ballet, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Pining, Teenlock, ballet!lock, rugby!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1895028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hum_hum_humbug/pseuds/lemmonysnippets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yes, well. He is bored and stifled with his boring life and his boring duties and his useless mother,” Sherlock explained, turning to face the blue eyes that were staring straight at him. “So he dreams of freedom and adventure in the form of a swan. And they dance together.”</p><p>“Is he in love with the Swan?” John asked.  </p><p>Sherlock balked at that, mouth opening and closing for a moment before he gathered his wits.</p><p>“He has a girlfriend,” Sherlock shrugged, going back to fastening his laces with quiet determination.</p><p>“That’s not what I asked.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Act IV: Andante Grazioso

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eliane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliane/gifts).



> A belated birthday gift for my love who wrote me the best thing ever earlier this week. I can only offer this hastily put together thing with ballet and rugby and young darlings in love.

A drop of sweat made its way down his temple. His thighs were burning with the strain of repeating the same part of the choreography over and over, aiming for perfection. Plié. Relevé. Rond de jambe. Tour jeté. A soft creak of the door. Stop.  
  
“Wow,” came a soft breath.  
  
Panels of pale sun were the sole source of light in the studio and through the brightly lit particles of chalk and dust, Sherlock could only see the shadowed outline of the familiar figure by the door. It could just as easily be a delusion, an illusion, a phantom, a fantasy. An exquisite bit of torture his mind had conjured to entice and torment him.  
  
This choreography had finally broken him. He had finally lost his mind.   
  
“Don’t stop,” said the apparition, stepping forward into the light and disproving Sherlock’s hope (and fear) that the sudden appearance of the object of his hopes and dreams and desires for the past two years was just a trick of the mind. The young man before him was perfectly _perfect_ and perfect corporeal.   
  
Framed by the fractured light of the cool September day, John Watson stood with a gym bag slung over one shoulder and one hand brushing through his golden blond hair, damp and tousled from a recent shower. Clearly just out of rugby practice, having just taken a shower in the locker room down the hall and wandered into the studio to see why there was the blazing sound of…  
  
Sherlock lunged for the stereo, fumbling for a moment before slamming the pause button to stop the booming sound of Tchaikovsky’s angry tune filling the empty space between them. He hoped the act looked less awkward and graceless than it had felt but he was nonetheless grateful that he could take a moment kneeling by the speakers to hide his flushed face and calm his quickened breath.  
  
“Sorry…that was just,” John said, a smile in his voice, “beautiful to watch. Was that Swan Lake?”  
  
“How do you know it?” Sherlock asked sharply, stealing a quick glance at the handsome, sunlit profile. He immediately hated himself. Every time he had the chance to speak to John in a context that did not involve their Chemistry course, Sherlock absolutely botched it up. And here he was ruining it again. As expected.   
  
“Ah, well,” John said, smiling brightly and rubbing the back of his neck. John always did that in Chemistry when an equation was especially difficult and needed his concentration. “To be honest, I might not have recognized it but I heard…well, I heard the really famous bit of it when I was walking down the corridor.”  
  
“Yes. Act four. It’s the finale,” Sherlock supplied. He was all too aware that he stood staring for a moment too long, admiring the older boy’s relaxed countenance with nothing but the words and the dust stretching in the infinitely finite space between them. He made his way towards his bag in the corner and busied himself with the task of finding his bottle of water.  
  
“Er, yeah. So I saw you dancing and I figured, well, it’s not a crime to come watch a friend’s dance practice, is it?” John chuckled.  
  
“Friend?!” Sherlock choked out in alarm, having just taken a grateful sip of cold water, which he was barely able to keep from spitting all over the floor.  
  
“Never mind,” John sighed, “I’m sorry I interrupted you."  
  
“I was nearly done, regardless,” Sherlock said hastily, easing himself onto the floor and starting to unwrap the bandages from his feet. The sooner he dismissed John’s polite pleasantries, the sooner he could be left alone to recover from the panic attack he was having. John was here. John had seen him dance. John, John, had seen him dance the death scene, which he was still dancing less cleanly than he had hoped and he had probably looked ridiculous without accompaniment and he had been dancing it _for John,_ he had been dancing it trying to dull the ache of _wanting John._  
  
“Ah, you’re done. That’s a shame,” John said, still more laughter in his voice. Why did John sound happy? Why was that breath of laughter in his voice? Was he laughing at Sherlock? “Because that was… you were amazing.”  
  
“You really think so?” Sherlock blurted out before he could stop himself. His face was absolutely aflame now and he cursed himself internally for blushing so readily at such simple praise, or rather at any interaction with John. This happened every time John told him he was clever during a Chemistry experiment or laughed in amusement at his deductions on their occasional walks from school. And, of course, John was being kind. For all that John’s popular group of friends were mistaken to think he was happy to be ordinary and boring like them--- _he wasn’t ordinary, he was bored, Sherlock could see that he wanted so much more, so much more than the day to day drudgery that everyone else was satisfied with—_ he was an incredibly kind person. So of course, he was saying kind things to Sherlock— _to Sherlock of all people—_ after thinking that he had interrupted his practice.  
  
“Of course it was. Absolutely brilliant,” John said, dumping the bag from his shoulder and plopping down next to him in a carefree manner. _Why wasn’t he leaving?_ Sherlock pretended that his hands weren’t trembling while he carefully peeled off the bandages from his feet. He hissed softly as they dragged against the blister on his toe.  
  
“Ouch. I swear if half the rugby guys were as tough as you, we’d never lose a game,” John said, hissing in sympathy. “It takes more than most people understand to carry your weight on your toe, doesn’t it? Which part do you dance?”  
  
“The lead Swan,” Sherlock said thrusting his feet into soft wooly socks and breathing a sigh of relief. It was harder and harder not to stare at the boy sitting next to him on the floor, who looked as if he’d done this a hundred times before, as if he wanted to stay and speak to Sherlock.  
  
“Isn’t the Swan a bewitched princess?” John asked, sounding vaguely disappointed.  
  
Sherlock shot him a glare, eyes narrowed. “We are performing, in fact, Matthew Bourne’s reimagining of the play. The plot is entirely different and the Swan is danced by a male dancer.”  
  
“That’s fine,” John said reassuringly.  
  
“I know it’s fine,” Sherlock snapped, pulling on his shoes. This was useless. He was useless at this. Why was every word out of his mouth so prickly and sour when John was nothing short of perfect, perfect, perfect.  
  
  
“So what is the plot of this version?” John inquired, leaning back on his elbows to half-lie-down next to Sherlock.  
  
“It’s about a prince.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Yes, well. He is bored and stifled with his boring life and his boring duties and his useless mother,” Sherlock explained, turning to face the blue eyes that were staring straight at him. “So he dreams of freedom and adventure in the form of a swan. And they dance together.”  
  
“Is he in love with the Swan?” John asked.    
  
Sherlock balked at that, mouth opening and closing for a moment before he gathered his wits.  
  
“He has a girlfriend,” Sherlock shrugged, going back to fastening his laces with quiet determination.  
  
“That’s not what I asked.”  
  
Sherlock sighed, tying off his laces rather aggressively and jumping to his feet.  “Yes he falls in love with the Swan.”  
  
There was nothing for it. He had to change out of the sweat-soaked t-shirt. In front of John. In front of John who was all perfect, supple muscles from rugby. Rugby for all it’s savagery left the body capable and strong while ballet’s delicate grace was just a cover for its brutality, which slowly but surely chipped away at you. Sherlock was fully aware that his body was all brutalized angles and jutting muscles. _He doesn’t even see you that way, stop being a baby._ Sherlock peeled the sticky fabric over his head and tossed it to the floor, ruffled his hair quickly and located a fresh shirt in his bag   
  
Suddenly John's silence seemed absolute and deafening. Every breath had ceased. Or, more likely, Sherlock’s ears had gone temporarily deaf.  
  
Quickly he threw on a white t-shirt and his jacket and met John’s eyes once more.  
  
“And are they together in the end? The prince and the Swan?” John asked with a resigned sadness in his voice that Sherlock did not quite understand.  
  
Sherlock had to take several calming breaths at that question, his heart beating so furiously against his ribcage that he was sure John could hear it and that his heart had betrayed him after all and revealed the secret his tongue was so careful to keep locked away.  
  
“No,” Sherlock said simply.  
  
John let the silence stretch between them, still half on his back on the floor, looking at him with undefinable purpose as Sherlock shuffled awkardly to stuff his soiled clothes into his bag.   
  
“No. The other swans are betrayed that he would want to be a human and they…they rip him apart for trying to be with the prince despite their wishes,” Sherlock said, voice trembling slightly as he pretended to busy himself with the task of organizing his bag. “But it is implied that they are reunited in death.”  
  
Was Sherlock imagining the treacle haze around them? Was he imagining the aching tension in the room? Was John completely oblivious to the fact that Sherlock’s pulse was throbbing with the force of his suppressed desire?  
  
“Sherlock,” John said, on his feet and standing in front of him in a moment. Not only was the sound of his name on John’s lips almost too much to bear, Sherlock was also overwhelmed by the sudden proximity. John smelled of the usual generic shampoo from the locker room and faintly of sweet rain-soaked grass. Sherlock wanted to bury his nose in John’s neck and smell his fill of it. He cleared his throat instead.   
  
“Yes?” he ventured hesitantly. John’s tone was suddenly too full of purpose.   
  
“I have a confession to make. I didn’t just wander in here because of the music,” John said cautiously, “I checked the studio schedule to see when you had it signed out.”  
  
“No you didn’t. Why did you?” Sherlock snapped, anxiety coiling in his stomach like an inescapable knot.  
  
“Because I wanted to talk to you,” John said, rubbing that familiar spot on his neck as he always did when he was nervous. Nervous? Because of _Sherlock?_  
  
Sherlock blinked at him.  
  
“Because I just…wanted to ask you, once and for all, if I’m imagining things. Am I imagining things? Because sometimes it feels like there is a connection between us. Because it feels like I can _see you_ and you can _see me._ Because sometimes you’ll correct Mr. Leahy in Chem and I’ll laugh and you’ll look over at me and smile. And sometimes I’ll roll my eyes at something Jack is saying and catch your eyes and we’ll smile at each other like we’re laughing at a private joke. And when we walk home, you’ll talk to me like I’m your friend but then you won’t meet my eyes when we cross paths in the hallway. And every week during lab, I think that we’re having a great time and maybe I could finally ask you to... but then when the bell rings you just rush off and never even look at me.”  
  
All of those moments had meant the world to Sherlock, but that they registered at all for John who had dozens of friends and probably chatted with acquaintances every day…well, it was too much to contemplate that John might look forward to their occasional walks or to Chemistry class…Was John…did John want to be his friend after all?  
  
“And so sometimes it seems like you may actually like me and other times it seems like you hate me and I figured it would be better to be straightforward,” John explained, looking away for a moment before resolving to  look at him squarely in the eyes. John was so brave. Sherlock was breathless partly in disbelief at the words he was hearing and partly in awe of how very very brave John was. Brave in a way Sherlock would never be, brave in a way that Sherlock had admired every day. “I’ve been sitting behind you in Chemistry every day on purpose and I’ve tried so hard to…I dunno, chat you up, for a lack of better word. You must think I’m crazy, going on and on about all of these little things like they meant more than—well, until five minutes ago you didn’t consider us to be friends. It’s just I…you must know. It can’t be a secret from the cleverest boy at school. I’ve a massive…massive crush on you—well, more than a crush. So I just need to know if it’s all in my head."   
  
Sherlock looked at him, really looked at him and at the promise of sincerity etched into every line of his body, at the worried crinkle between his brows that made it look like…it was costing him everything to put this confession before Sherlock. That unhappy frown was there _because of Sherlock,_ because he thought there was a chance that Sherlock didn’t feel all of that and much much more. As though Sherlock couldn’t tell based on which shirt John was wearing whether his father had come home drunk the previous night and John had had to stay up comforting his sister. As though Sherlock didn’t deliberately place his notes so that John could see them on days when he knew John had not slept a wink, listening to his parents shouting at each other downstairs. As though he didn’t know that they would walk past each other in the corridor every day at 10:26 when Sherlock was on his way to Maths and John was getting out of History and that he didn’t look forward to that moment all morning.  
  
“It’s not all in your head. _None_ of it is in your head,” Sherlock said, with a bravery that he did not possess, with a bravery that was entirely borrowed from John. “I didn’t understand…I thought you were just being kind because you knew that I was alone. So I was trying to…not force you to speak to me out of…obligation. Of course, you are _my_ friend _._ I just didn’t know I was yours, you have so many. I didn’t…want to give away how much I…if you didn’t feel anything and were just being kind."   
  
“Oh,” John breathed in relief and every line in his face softened into something ecstatic, something beautiful, something glorious. He looked at Sherlock with so much…pity? No, not that. With affection, with concern, with…with…pure delight. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’m not a very kind person.”  
  
“No that’s where everyone else is wrong about you. They think you’re nice. You’re not nice at all but you’re incredibly kind, John Watson,” Sherlock gushed before he could stop himself and John’s expression melted even further into something indescribable.  
  
“ _You_ couldn’t tell I was gone on you the whole time? _You_?” John smiled, teasing slightly.  
  
Sherlock huffed, half-elated and half-annoyed with himself for being so so stupid. “I was theorizing ahead of the facts. I had assumed that you _couldn’t possibly_ like me and therefore I interpreted all new evidence in that light. A capital mistake--as you may remember me telling you during the experiment last week--to interpret evidence to suit a conclusion instead of using the facts to reach a—“  
  
Suddenly it was impossible to continue. His hand. His right hand, to be more specific, was being cradled in both of John’s, strong fingers gently lacing through his own and a thumb coming to rub soothing circles on the soft skin on the back of his hand.   
  
Sherlock was an absolutely speechless, quivering mess.  
  
“How could you ever think that? You are the most amazing person that I have _ever met_ ,” John said, “I look forward to our walks homes and to lab every week because it’s the only time you really speak to me. I mean, only about bacteria growth and acidic corrosion but it’s all quite interesting and you look so alive and excited when you’re being brilliant and explaining things, like you’ve lit up with excitement and—“  
  
“I’ve come to every rugby game this year. I hate rugby,” Sherlock said, allowing himself a teasing smirk. “But I loved watching you play. You looked…breathtaking."  
  
John grinned back. “I looked up the Dance Department’s schedule and watched YouTube clips of the Bolshoi ballet performance so I could talk to you about Swan Lake.”  
  
“Imagine your surprise when you found out we were doing an entirely different version,” Sherlock chuckled, feeling giddy down to his very core.  
  
“Yes it completely ruined my plan of trying to impress you with my knowledge of ballet,” John admitted, still grinning, “but I must say…I’m glad you’re dancing the Swan. I stood to watch you through the doors for longer than I care to admit. You’re the most…that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”  
  
“I was dancing it for you,” Sherlock blurted awkwardly before he could stop himself and to his great relief, John’s face split into an immensely pleased smile. John brought the hand clasped between his own to his lips, not quite kissing his knuckles but simply holding their clasped hands to his lips like a prayer, like a promise.  
  
“Am I your prince then?” John teased, laughing.   
  
Sherlock’s only possible response was to blush even further, if that were physically possible.  
  
"I’m sorry I ever let you doubt this. I’m sorry you didn’t know that you’re my friend,” John whispered against his hand.  
  
“More than a friend,” Sherlock pointed out but his voice was so uncertain, even to his own ears, that it came out like a question.  
  
There was a feather of a kiss pressed against his fingers then, tender lips affirming a promise to be kept. “Yes. Much more. I promise you. I’ll never let you doubt me again."  
  
“It was never _you_ that I—“  
  
“I’ll never let you doubt _us_ again,” John said with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. Sherlock wanted him to always be smiling like that, warm and soft and relaxed and genuinely genuinely _happy._ He vowed to do whatever necessary to make sure he was the cause of this smile as often as possible.  With an edge of purpose creeping in to the corner of his smile, John brought one hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek—the other hand still laced in Sherlock’s—and rubbed a thumb against the jutting cheekbone. Sherlock had to stifle a whimper.   
  
“I’ll never let you feel alone again. I’ve got you now,” John promised and Sherlock, undone entirely by the gradually dawning notion that John  _liked him,_ leaned forward to rest his forehead against the older boy’s.    
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
“Hmmm?”  
  
“Please, please, tell me that I can kiss you,” John said fiercely, pulling Sherlock closer to him still until the lengths of their bodies were pressed together, muscled thighs and torso setting Sherlock on fire where they met his own. It was a miracle that he refrained from grinding against the pleasant warmth of the body he had coveted for so long.  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock murmured.  
  
“Please, say it. I just want to hear you say that you want me too,” John whispered against his cheek.  
  
“Want you _too_? I want you more than anything,” Sherlock said truthfully. John had given him more than he thought he would every have. It was only fair that Sherlock should be at his mercy. “Kiss me. I’ve never wanted anyone—“  
  
John’s lips stole the declaration from his mouth. Lips and teeth and tongue came together urgently with two years of _want._ It was a moment of absolution, a sliver of relief. Everything bursting into sharp relief. Everything fading into oblivion. And Sherlock never ever wanted to stop feeling it, never wanted to go without John’s lips against his own lips, his cheek, his neck.  
  
“I promise you,” John repeated again when they pulled away for air.   
  
It sounded like _I love you._


End file.
